


Live Up

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures, The Midnight Crew - Fandom
Genre: Cardiophilia, Heartbeat Kink, M/M, Masturbation, dude i fuckign hate tagging, primality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 16:20:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12708546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Hearts has a dream. Clubs overhears.





	Live Up

**Author's Note:**

> this is straight up cardiophile porn i'm just gonna be honest. barely edited, again; i'm not even bothering to look at it before i publish it. i hope you guys like it anyways

_ Bones. Beneath his hands, he can feel them creak, and then snap, and then disintegrate. Shards grind their way deep into spasming muscle. His strength has no end. The more he squeezes, the more tissue gives way, turning to pulp in his grasp. _

_ He can’t see, but he can feel. _

_ His hands, arms, face--warm, wet, sticky. Rusty. _

_ He can smell. _

_ The sharp, meaty smell of insides exposed. Organs shift and twitch around his intruding fingers, fingers that dig ever farther to find something else to ravage. _

_ He can taste that sultry and enticing tang filling his mouth. There’s flesh against his tongue, and his teeth are slicing in, components of a grand, relentless machine. Chew and swallow. _

_ It doesn’t matter what it is, if it was a person. It’s nothing but prey. It’s all animal to him. _

_ Screams of agony are ignored. _

_ It’s all animal. _

  
  


When Boxcars awakens, it’s to his heart violently throwing itself against his ribs, throbbing as if it could burst free of its confines. He’s spluttering and cursing, ripping at the sheets tangled around his arms and legs, with breath coming in huge gasps and sweat soaking into the mattress. His mouth tastes of blood. For a second, panic fills him, and his irregular pulse is dominating every ounce of his conscious thought. The dark around him looms heavy and oppressive, with every infinitesimal moment of notice he directs towards his heart causing it to leap up eagerly to meet his mental touch. He can’t see anything else but fluttering red. It’s a base state, animal. As in his dream.

_ Christ. _

It’s been awhile since he’s a dream like that. Of course his dreams often involve violence; he’s a fucking mobster, for God’s sake. That’s nothing novel. But they’re rarely so vivid. Very, very rarely. He feels as if his hands are still surrounded by writhing, live heat. As arousal courses through him, he can't tell how much of it is from the stutter of his heart, and how much of it is from the scenes of angry primality that still snarl and claw at the back of his mind, digging in with vicious nails. Having torn his way out of the linen trap his sleeping self fought his way into, he clicks on his bedside lamp and lies back to stare at the cracks in the ceiling. “Fuck,” he breathes, his voice small and shaking.

He can feel every ounce of blood as it pounds impatiently through his body. Every nerve is on fire. He makes no contact with his skin, yet as his hand moves hesitantly down over his body, he can feel it, tingling as the hairs on his stomach pick up the slight vibrations above them. It hurts, how engorged his member is. Sucking in a sharp breath, he pushes his underwear down over it, exhaling as it’s exposed to the air. It bounces ever so slightly, a string of clear viscosity connecting it back to the imprisoning waistband before it breaks. His heart palpitates, a shiver running down his spine. Solid. Lying vertically against his stomach, his cock is hard enough to be majorly uninclined to move anywhere else.

He mutters another expletive, brow furrowing deeply. He’s not in control of it. Helpless. The heat in his genitals fuels the rapid ticking of his heart, and his heart fuels the heat right back, and he can feel himself getting more and more worked up as he lies there. He’s bordering on panting, harsh gusts billowing out of his lungs that barely have enough oxygen following them to keep him conscious. Without further thought, his fingers play up the sides of his shaft, sliding the skin gently over the muscle underneath. A moan darts into the air, his heart screams hallelujah and goes into double-time. He’s almost too sensitive to jack off.

But he can’t leave it. He couldn’t. Not even if he wanted to.

Blind instinct drives him into his curled hand, and he senselessly moves, stimulus clamoring from every corner of his body. Hearts quite often takes his time with such things, always a candles-and-rose-petals type of man; even in masturbation he typically prepares, retrieving lubricant, toys--any variety of things to extend the moment of pleasure. But not this time. He fucks his hand viciously, the most involuntary and half-strangled noises gallivanting out of him to fill the musky reek surrounding him with the embarrassing evidence of his desperation. His mouth still bears the bloody flavor, and he finds a spot on his cheek that he must have bit down on in the midst of his dream, still seeping. He sucks on it as his free hand finds itself on his heaving chest to feel the rhythm beneath. As if he couldn’t feel it anyways, traveling vivaciously through every artery, every vein he has, in every limb and appendage, his whole form seeming to beat along with it. He finds himself unable to breathe. Unable to focus. Closing his eyes, he sees red again, and he doesn’t know what he’s pretending it is, only that it shoves him farther into his rabid frenzy, savage and thirsting. Parched, parched for everything that’s held inside a body, for everything that moves within himself, hungry and vibrating with that hunger.  _ Prey. _ He bites hard on the tip of his tongue, his lip, thrusting, listening. Letting the pattern of his own life force dig its way irrevocably into the depths of his eardrums, beyond. Into his brain, like a parasite. Digging until it takes him over completely.

Suddenly, there comes the hesitant rapping of knuckles on the door.

“Hearts?”

Boxcars freezes, trying to stifle his wild gasps and failing as his heart somersaults over itself several beats in a row. He lurks in the sultry dark as some feverish beast, praying that there won’t be another knock. Deuce. That light pitch of concern tells him that if the other man speaks again, he’ll have to respond, lest his silence induces panic.  _ Don’t. Don’t _ . 

“Are you alright?”

_ Fuck. Fuck!  _ “I, uh…”

_ Let him in _ .

That doesn’t seem reasonable. Or safe, right now.

_ Let him in! _

He swings his legs over the side of the bed. His erection screams for attention, twitching violently against the mess of precum that soaks his stomach hair. The blood rushes sharp through his head and almost makes him faint, stomach lurching. “I’ll...be there...in a sec,” he calls thinly.

“Okay,” comes the reply.

Hearts makes an attempt to pull up his boxers, but there’s not really any point. It’d just look ridiculous. Clenching his jaw, he removes them, puts on the bathrobe that hangs at the foot of his bed. He balks more than once on the way to the door, and balks more than once in opening it. The robe isn’t enough to protect him from shame. He’s  _ embarrassed. _ He feels his face flush hot, hotter than it was before, as he finally forces himself to pull the door open, just a crack.

Clubs stands looking up at him, eyebrows drawn together. “Hi,” he murmurs.

“Hey,” Boxcars replies. There’s an awkward moment, then a sigh so deep it leaves a part of itself hurting in his chest; he’s almost crying from embarrassment. “I, uh...I…” Suddenly he’s shaking, and suddenly he’s opening the door more, letting the other man in. Club isn’t a complete idiot. He may act like it sometimes, but he’s not. He knows what was happening. The tone in his voice has been of a certain tone, hushed and secretive, subtly knowing. As he enters the fecund den he glances down, glances to where he knows Hearts has been touching himself, glances up, up at Hearts’s stricken face, at the gaze averted and unable meet his. Out of his peripheral vision he sees the hand snake into his, and when he looks Clubs is holding tight to him, leading him back to the bed. Bringing him to edge, imploring him to sit with those wide eyes. And he does. And he allows him to unveil his member from behind its cloth shield.

Deuce’s lips part slightly, teeth slightly crooked and glinting dully. His face is still painted all over with worry, like graffiti, like vandalism on a graveyard angel. This has happened before. This scenario is not unfamiliar. But Hearts still hates for his lover to see him this way. Such brutality, such vibrant anger, such hunger should be reserved for work, he thinks, should be reserved for when it has a use and not the middle of the night when there’s nowhere to place the desire besides self-indulgence. Quietly, barely more than a breath out, Clubs whispers “May I?” and when he receives an affirmative, a jerky nod, he wraps one hand around the shaft, the other brushing tentatively against Boxcars’s wrist. His mouth is small, and the cock before him is very large, but that’s never stopped the before. He kisses, licks, then takes the head of it in, movements slow and practiced. His thumb presses down against Hearts’s pulse.

Hearts feels as if he could die, right then. Either die, or kill. He would never, he could never, but he’s just so damn  _ ravenous.  _ Inescapably. He squeezes his eyes shut, a tear rolling down his cheek, knowing that the other man can feel his errant pulse gallop along, lurching every so often, making each breath of his shudder and quake. It’s unavoidable, his climax; after only a few seconds of Deuce sucking and running his tongue in firm circles, he lets out a great shudder, a grunt that pushes out forcefully and saliva-spattered through clenched teeth. His heart drops, comes up, and then slows, just a little. He doesn’t look as for several seconds he fills the other man’s mouth with semen, as it disappears almost as fast as it’s coming out. Moaning, then gasping, he pushes the head at his crotch away back, sensitive nerves now recoiling from the eager ministrations. There’s a hard swallowing noise. He tries to not let it loop in his head.

“I love you,” Deuce says, voice cutting into the intense pleasure that lingers despite the chagrin. When he gets no response, he gently rearranges the folds of the bathrobe to cover up Hearts again, then he climbs up onto the bed beside him. “You know...I mean, you know that you could just...come and get me, right?”

“Yeah,” Hearts replies to the wall.

“I don’t mind,” Deuce tentatively continues. “I’ve never minded.”

The silence feels like his eulogy. He’s expended. Tired. He wishes that he wasn’t too keyed-up to fall asleep again. Sweaty and recovering with heart still vaguely thrumming in his ears, he finds the bravery to reach out and pull his partner in, allowing himself to breathe in the comforting pheromones, staving back bloody thoughts. They’re mostly gone. This man, dog-like in his tenacity and loyalty, is his anchor. The reason he needs control at all. “I love you too,” he murmurs.


End file.
